


It's The Thought That Counts

by orphan_account



Category: A-Team (TV)
Genre: Early Work, Gen, Holidays, Humor, Silly, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:03:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy makes the mistake of inviting the team over for Thanksgiving dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's The Thought That Counts

**Author's Note:**

> This story originally appeared in the fanzine "Plans Scams & Vans #3", published in 1997.
> 
> The following story is written entirely for fun and not for any profit. No attempt is made to supersede or infringe upon the copyrights held by any television or film companies upon which this story is based.

Amy wielded the turkey baster as if it were a katana and hollered, with barely restrained anger, "Murdock, if you touch this bird one more time I'm going to stick _you_ in the oven instead!"

The surprised pilot backed away quickly and nearly fell on the kitchen floor when his sneakers slid on some spilled melted butter. "Sorry! Sorry, muchacha, the bird is yours! I swear, Chef Murdock vill stay on hees side of ze kitchen." As he straightened his chef's hat he added under his breath, "Even if ze assistant chef knows _nothing_ about ze correct way to dress a Thanksgiving turkey."

 _"Assistant?"_ Amy growled. Biting back her next comment, she put the baster down and wondered if she hadn't been spending too much time around B.A. Though it seemed more as if Murdock had been the bad influence on her today, because only a truly insane person would get it in her head to ask the A-Team over for Thanksgiving dinner. Call it masochism, call it her maternal instinct kicking in. Call it whatever you want, now she just couldn't wait until it was all over.

It had started out a noble enough idea, one which she thought might help, to some extent, indicate how much she considered the Team to be her friends - part of her extended family. When Hannibal and the others had accepted her invitation a week ago, she'd begun making preparations immediately, planning every detail of the meal, buying supplies, cleaning the house . . . Her own family was scattered across the country - her father passed away, her mother living in Florida, her sister already married and living in New York with her own family. She'd missed having people to share the holidays with in the past years, and who better to join her than the Team?

Or so she'd foolishly thought. Now, on the glorious holiday, she'd been up since 5 a.m., shoving stuffing up a still only half-defrosted turkey's ass. Murdock had volunteered to help with the preparations, so she had arranged to pick him up at 9 a.m. on a holiday pass. But "assistant Chef" Murdock had quickly attempted to take over the operations, crying in horror at what he considered her paltry plans and insufficient supplies.

"Mon Dieu!" he'd exclaimed as soon as he opened her refrigerator. His accent was varying between French and Swedish depending on his current whim. "Where are ze sweet potatoes? Ze fresh mushrooms for ze gravy? Why, B.A.'ll go through that many green beans as a light snack!"

And so, Murdock had dragged her back to the supermarket - the one and only supermarket in the nearby area that was actually open on Thanksgiving morning - to buy even more food. Which, of course, Amy got to flip the bill for. Not for the first time, she wondered what exactly Murdock did with his share of the profits from the Team's missions. Certainly it didn't go to supporting his wardrobe.

Things had only turned increasingly worse as the day had gone on. Murdock had apparently been watching too many episodes of the Muppet Show recently, because he had immediately gone into full-blown Swedish Chef mode as they began to cook. After six hours of _"Smir-nir-bor de-boor skih-dish-skih-door, Smir-nir-dir-boor nir dir mmm-bork! Bork! Bork!"_ Amy was about to hit the roof.

Now, granted, Amy had no misconceptions of being a master of culinary techniques, but she figured that with "The Joy of Cooking" in hand and more than some experience behind the stove over the years, she could do just fine, but Murdock had other ideas about her abilities. First it was the way she prepared her green beans. ("Non non non, mon petite, you must _break_ ze tips off, not _cut_ them off!") Then it was the way she was making the coleslaw and the dressing. ("Vere are ze celery seeds? One cannot make ze proper cole slaw dressing vidout ze celery seeds!") By the time he started looking over her shoulder in dismay as she began on the mashed potatoes, she'd handed over all "side dish" duties to Chef Murdock and declared herself the master of the twenty-five pound turkey and the desserts. But, still, every so often, he couldn't help but make a comment or two that made her begin to wonder if a lobotomy wouldn't be in order soon . . . for Murdock or herself, she couldn't decide.

She had just shoved the turkey back in the over after basting, praying that her cooking time calculations for the giant bird were correct, when her doorbell rang.

"I wonder who that could be . . ." she said as she left the kitchen and went to the door. For a moment she feared trouble - in the form of Decker, perhaps, but when she looked through the peep hole in the door she saw an unfamiliar blonde-haired woman waiting.

Amy opened the door partially, and asked, "May I help you?"

The young woman (she couldn't have been over 22, Amy guessed) unpuckered her pouty, over-glossed lips and responded, "Yeah, I'm lookin' for Jimmy? Jimmy Revell. The movie director."

"I'm sorry, there's no Jimmy here, you must have the wrong address." Amy tried to close the door but the woman stuck a well-manicured hand in the way, protesting, "But he told me this was where he was gonna be! I don't understand -"

"Look, I'm sorry, lady, but I got a turkey to deal with right now, and I don't have time to -"

"Aaaaah, Bambi, I'm so glad you could make it!" came Face's voice from behind Amy. Amy spun around to see the lieutenant standing there, all smiles. Face had sauntered over to the house around 2 p.m., already complaining about how hungry he was and raiding the fridge for snacks. When Amy had asked if perhaps he couldn't lend a hand with at least setting the table, he had mysteriously disappeared into the other room, mumbling something about needing to "check on some investments." B.A. had arrived a short while later with Hannibal, both men plopping themselves down in front of the TV to watch football.

Face now eased his way past Amy, taking Bambi by the hand and leading her into the foyer as if it were his own home. The young woman walked with an incredibly affected strut, clicking her high heels loudly; whether she was trying to imitate a runway model or a streetwalker Amy was undecided. Her outfit certainly seemed more appropriate for the latter. "Please, please come in. I'm sorry for any confusion here, just come on into the living room, I'll pop open the bottle of champagne . . ."

"Yes, _so sorry_ for the confusion . . ." Amy echoed, glaring after Face, who, once he pointed Bambi in the right direction, came back to Amy with his smoothest, most apologetic look in place.

"I'm sorry, I forgot to mention Bambi was coming, I thought the invitation was open for us to bring dates as well. You're not upset, now, Amy, are you?"

"Oh no, not at all. The more the merrier, that's what they always say, isn't it? Now, if you'll excuse me, 'Timmy' -"

"- Jimmy."

"- Right, Jimmy, I have to get back to the kitchen before Chef Murdock accosts my buns."

Face's eyes widened at that remark.

"The ones in the _toaster oven_ , Face, get your mind out of the gutter."

Face followed her into the kitchen, asking, "How about some salad or something while we wait for the turkey? I didn't eat at all this morning and -"

"You want salad? Here!" Amy opened the refrigerator door, reached in, and tossed a head of iceberg lettuce at Face. "Knock yourself out."

Sensing eminent bodily harm if he stuck around much longer, he sheepishly left the kitchen, lettuce in hand. With a weary sigh, Amy went back to her buns, catching them just before they started to burn. Then she returned to the chocolate pudding pie, getting the pie crust in the toaster oven before Murdock could claim it for one of his concoctions.

"But, my sweet potatoes with coconut and brown sugar glaze, they -"

Amy spun around, a large cooking fork in her hand now that was much more threatening than the turkey baster. "- can share the regular oven with the turkey, Murdock. Now -" she put the fork in his hand, "why don't you put together some plate of vegetables and dip, or something, for the hungry mob in there before they go mutinous on us."

By some miracle, just about an hour later, the table was actually set, the candles lit, the glasses filled with milk (for B.A.) or champagne (everyone else), and food was everywhere. Amy almost couldn't believe that her plan had, in fact, "come together," more or less. With Hannibal's help, Murdock lugged the giant turkey onto its place at the head of the table, while Amy collapsed into her chair, sitting down for the first time in hours. Murdock's chef's hat was gone, replaced by a red-and-white Santa's hat.

"Murdock, it's Thanksgiving, not Christmas," Face observed, taking his eyes very momentarily off Bambi and her almost gravity defying bosom.

"Ah, but Thanksgiving is the start of the holiday season, is it not?" Murdock countered. "Now, Colonel, I feel 'tis only proper that you lead off the festivities with the ceremonial carving of the sacrificial bird."

Hannibal took the carving knives from Murdock, who saluted and then took his seat in between Amy and B.A.

Bambi commented, "Oooh, a colonel? Wow . . . were you in the army or something, Johnny?"

"Or something," Hannibal replied cryptically. Once an ample portion of the breast and then the dark meat was carved away and doled out onto each of their plates, B.A. led the group in a long, drawn-out prayer of thanks. Amy thought to herself that it was the most she'd ever heard the sergeant say at one time. When he was finally finished thanking what seemed like everyone in the greater Chicago and L.A. areas, the feeding frenzy quickly began in full force.

Plates were passed around and filled to overflowing, all the while B.A. and Hannibal debated on the results of the afternoon football game and made predictions on the evening's match. Face was putting on a rather sickening display of feeding Bambi, who giggled in delight and was literally hanging all over Face, who in turn was occasionally going on and on about how good Murdock's cooking was.

"So, how's the turkey?" Amy asked eagerly. Everyone seemed to be taking it with large helpings of the thick mushroom gravy.

"It's . . . certainly a big bird," Hannibal remarked.

B.A. nodded his head and took his third helping of mashed potatoes.

"Face?"

"Huh? Oh . . . oh yeah, pretty good, Amy, yeah. Say, Murdock did you sauté these beans with lemon and rosemary?"

"Rosemary? Who's Rosemary? Did you bring another date tonight too, Faceman, and not tell me about it? Come here, Billy, here, have some turkey, good boy . . ." The champagne was going very quickly to Murdock's head and his delusions were coming out in full force.

"Don't be throwin' food on th'floor, foo'! Ain't no dog," B.A. snarled.

Bambi giggled at Murdock's antics. "Oh, Mr. Murdock, you are just a _scream!_ You must be a comedian, right?"

"Or something like that," Face supplied, picking up a dinner roll and examining it critically. "Say, Amy you got any of these that are a little less . . . well done?"

Amy threw him a murderous look that caused him to quickly change his tune. "Right, never mind."

Leftovers were few and far between, especially by the time B.A. was finished eating. Amy was thankful that Murdock had insisted on the second supply trip - the food she had bought previously would have barely fed the mighty Baracus alone.

"Okay, I know the turkey was a little tough, but wait till you guys taste my desserts," Amy declared, getting up from the table, determined to prove her culinary prowess. "There's chocolate pudding pie, lemon meringue, pecan squares, even my grandmother's cherry bourbon balls . . ."

She was barely finished speaking when, somewhere off in the distance, the sound of feint but approaching sirens could be heard.

"Oh no, you don't think . . ." Face started.

"Think what, honey?" Bambi asked.

Hannibal took only a moment to decide. "Yeah, I do." Suddenly all four men were on their feet. "Good thing we didn't park right outside, I was afraid something like this might happen. Amy, you got a back entrance outta here?"

"Well, um, there's the storm door out of the basement to the backyard, but -"

"That'll do. Come on guys, sorry to eat and run, kid, it was great."

"Now, wait -" Amy cried.

"Face, you and Bunny -"

"Bambi!"

"Rabbit, deer, whatever, you two stick together, Murdock, you'd better stay behind, easier to explain you being here than getting caught with us, just in case -" Hannibal was already at the cellar door.

"What's going on, Jimmy? Where -" Bambi asked.

"No sweat, hon, it's, erm, I'll explain on the way. Thanks Amy."

"But . . ."

B.A. patted her on the back so hard she nearly fell over. "Thanks for the chow, momma, gotta go." And with that, B.A. was the last to disappear, his gold chains rattling after him.

With the sirens almost at the door, Amy looked in disbelief to Murdock, who just shrugged, staggered a little bit on wobbly feet, and suddenly looking a little pale said, "Oh boy, um . . . I'll be right . . . back . . ." and staggered off to the bathroom.

Moments later, there was an insistent pounding at the door. Afraid to have it broken down if she didn't answer immediately, she opened the door, only to be pushed away harshly by the imposing Colonel Decker and his ever present trusty aide, Captain Crane.

"Just come on in, Colonel, why don't you," Amy remarked angrily.

"Where are they?" Decker growled, squinting around as MP's stormed through the house.

"Where are who, Colonel?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Miss Allen, we know the A-Team is here. Now, why don't you just tell us where they're hiding and make this easier on all of us."

"I don't know what you're talking about Colonel, I was just having a nice, quiet Thanksgiving dinner with a few of my good friends -"

"- And where are they? These _friends."_ Decker spit out the last word as if it were distasteful.

"Gone, to catch a holiday show downtown. They had to leave early. Well, all except one of them . . ."

An MP came into the dining room, dragging a most uncooperative Murdock with him. "Colonel Decker, sir, we found him in the bathroom."

"Doing what?" Decker asked.

The MP looked somewhat embarrassed, "Er, well -"

"I believe they call it 'praying to the Porcelain God' in some polite circles," Murdock put in.

"He had a little too much to drink," Amy added.

"Do you mind explaining what Captain Murdock, a known associate of the A-Team, is doing here in your home, Miss Allen?" Decker insisted.

"He's just a friend of mine, Colonel. Is there anything illegal about that?" The MP had let go of Murdock, who seemed to be regaining his balance fairly quickly. He staggered into the kitchen while Amy continued to argue with Decker and the MP's combed her house. "I can bring you up on charges of illegal entry and search, Colonel, for this intrusion."

"You just try, Miss Allen, you just try."

"Colonel, sir," Crane called, coming down the stairs with several MP's behind him. "We've searched the upstairs, no signs of them."

"No signs of anyone downstairs, either, sir," a young lieutenant said, coming up from the basement. "Although the storm door was unlocked."

Decker looked to Amy with an accusatory glare. She shrugged and said, "I must have forgotten to lock it after I brought in the laundry this morning."

"I'm sure."

Murdock came back out of the kitchen, a plate of cherry spice balls in hand. The sweet aroma of caramel and roasted nuts wafted after him from the open kitchen door. "Cherry ball, Colonel? They're simply delicious."

Decker looked around at his men in frustration. The A-Team had been spotted in this neighborhood earlier this day. He had no doubt they had been here - he could almost smell their presence in the air. Yet he had not moved fast enough, or with enough force. Being a holiday, he had not been able to round up a sufficient number of MP's to cordon off the entire neighborhood with roadblocks they way he should have. Now, it was just another wasted effort. Perhaps not completely, though. He was determined to show Miss Allen that he did not buy her innocence. One of these days, he would break her. He knew it was only a matter of time.

Decker wanted to tell Captain Murdock just what he could do with his cherry balls but . . . they did look quite good . . . without a word of thanks, he took one off the plate and inspected it carefully. Murdock popped one in his mouth and went around offering them to each of the MP's.

"Seeing how you're all here, Colonel, why don't you stay for dessert?" she asked with all the false sincerity she could muster. The more time she could hold him here, the more time the guys had to get out of the area.

"I don't think so, Miss Allen. All right, men, fall out." Finishing off the moist cookie, Decker gave her a final look and threatened, "Next time, we'll get them, and you'd better hope you're not around, or else you'll go down right with them."

"And a happy Thanksgiving to you too, Colonel," she replied, all smiles. The MP's followed their commander out, Crane being the last to leave. Before he did, he quickly snagged a second cherry ball off Murdock's tray.

Amy closed the door behind the departing military personnel, returned to the dining room, and sat down at the table. Shaking her head, she declared, "Murdock, this has been, without a doubt, the most _surreal_ holiday I have ever experienced."

"You haven't seen Christmas at the V.A., have you?" he replied wryly. The image brought an at least fleeting smile to Amy's face. Murdock stood up and said, "Go on, lay down, skeeter, take a load off. I'll take care of the dishes."

"Thanks, Murdock," Amy answered, too tired to argue and to not accept the offer. Sighing, she muttered, "So much for my grand Thanksgiving dinner." She dragged herself over to the sofa in the living room, where the TV was still on and the evening football game had just started up. The repetitive droning of the announcers and the cheering crowds lulled her to sleep long before Murdock finished cleaning up.

When he was done, he came out of the kitchen and smiled, watching her sleep for a few minutes, debating waking her up to get her properly to bed or just leaving her there. He decided on option number two. Leaving for a moment to retrieve a blanket, he came back downstairs and covered her snugly with the soft comforter. She didn't wake, just stirred slightly, pulling the blanket close and muttering something incomprehensible.

Pausing before heading upstairs to the spare bedroom, he bent down and kissed her ever-so-lightly on the forehead. "It's the thought that counts," he said.


End file.
